


Pine Needles and Poetry

by WolffyLuna



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Romantic Fluff, stuck in a cave together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-01 22:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: Adaar got her breath under control, and held out her staff at Cassandra’s foot. “This isn’t my strong suit, but I can try—”Warmth, like that from holding a candle next to skin, ran through her ankle. The heat faded, and with it, a portion of the pain. But only a portion.Adaar looked up at her. “Better?”“Somewhat.” Cassandra levered herself up, and tried to put weight on the ankle—and immediately collapsed. “It could be better.” She admitted.Cassandra injures her ankle fighting the Carta. Adaar helps.





	Pine Needles and Poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vyrenrolar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vyrenrolar/gifts).

> I hope you like it!
> 
> Many thanks to chocochipbiscuit for the beta (and stopping me from going too mad with the parentheticals. (I am aware of the irony in this note.))

It should have been a simple task. Take a small group of the Inquisition’s finest --if Sera could be called the ‘finest’ of anything-- ambush the Carta lyrium smugglers who had been threatening a nearby town and bring safety and stability and the light of the Inquisition to the people.

_It should have been simple._

The Carta took a goat track through the woods—somewhat hidden, but it was hard to hide anything from a town like the one they were near. The track was just wide and gently-sloping enough to take carts along, except for the one little valley, that the carts would have to slow down to get through. Tree cover hemmed in the path, pines growing thick and dense around it. It was a good site for an ambush, and Lace had picked it well.

Cassandra took the lead, sword in hand, feeling somewhat naked without any health potions. The Carta, along with smuggling lyrium, were causing unfortunate supply issues in the region. Vivienne took the rear—not that they would need it, who would end up behind them? Sera and Orchid Adaar walked sandwiched in between them.

Oh, Orchid Adaar- kind and chivalrous, unfortunately flirtatious, and even more unfortunately the Inquisitor, which left little room for said flirtation to go anywhere. She’d claimed that she wanted to woo Cassandra properly—but there had been little progress. (It had been a week. Cassandra’s mentors had called her impatient, and perhaps they were right.)

The pine trees grew tall and dense, with head-height branches bristling with needles and ready to smack one in the face. Wheel ruts cut into the ground, and pine needles were piled up in drifts by the passage of the carts.

They dipped into the valley, ready to climb up the hill and into the trees, and set up an ambush—

—When Cassandra heard the click of a crossbow bolt sliding into place, and the metal-on-leather hiss of a dagger drawn. She looked around, and through into the trees.

The Inquisition had good intelligence, but the Carta’s was nothing to sneeze at either. And—it was hard not to be spotted in a town like that. Hard to make sure no one knew what they had asked. And there were enough people who feared the Carta more than they trusted the Inquisition.

The Carta waited for them in the valley.

Vivienne reacted first, throwing a bolt of frost through the trees as she summoned her sword.

Cassandra spun around, to attack the Carta on the other side of the path. She swung, sword battering into an assassin’s leathers, but not breaking through.

They were sandwiched, surrounded, hemmed in by the trees.

Adaar shot a cone of fire from her hands, spreading the smell of sizzling hair through the air.

One arrow, and then another from Sera, punching into throats and gaps in mail and leather.

There were at least sixteen Carta, and four of them. Not the worst odds, but certainly not the best.

The assassin ducked under Cassandra’s arm, and disappeared.

Cassandra tried to spot him, tried to find out his trajectory—

He reappeared behind Orchid.

Adaar was competent. Dangerous. Capable of taking out an assassin behind her with just a breath of Fade-power.

Cassandra _knew_ that. It was just hard to believe when you could see the dagger inches from her back. She ran over to her, feet slipping on the pine needles.

\--Feet going through the pine needles. Going through them a foot deep, ankle rolling as she hit the bottom of the pit trap.

She fell on her face. Pine needles dug into her skin

It was a short trap, at least. Not enough to break anything. Easy enough to get out of, once she could get her feet under her. Her ankle screamed.

Adaar ducked over to help Cassandra up, the assassin’s dagger going high above her.

Sera took him out with an arrow to the neck, and then turned back to trying to drive back all the thugs pressing in on her. “Uh, a little help here?”

They got closer, and Sera lost the room to properly draw her bow back. She pulled out a little knife, and stabbed wildly at them.

Cassandra tried to drag herself up, to get over and help Sera. Sera could fight, but not at close quarters, not while near surrounded, but someone with a longer blade and more confidence could help—

She put weight on her right foot, and then her left—and a sharp stabbing pain shot through her ankle, and she fell forward again.

Orchid pulled her up to standing.

Vivienne ran over to Sera, and a swing with her arcane blade took out a large portion of the Carta.

The one she missed hit her in the ribs with a cudgel, and she nearly fell over.

Orchid looked around, flicking a few bolts of magic at the Carta without her staff’s assistance. Reassessing the odds, Cassandra guessed.

Four on sixteen was not terrible. But four on sixteen, with one of the melee fighters down with an injured ankle, and an archer getting surrounded because the melee fighters could not keep people off her, and a mage with ribs that were bound to be bruised, was less good.

Orchid whistled a signal to retreat, and sent a blast of fire into the trees. It was quick and hot, barely scorching a coat of charcoal on the trunks, but it sent the Carta scattering away.

She supported Cass by her shoulder, and ran into the forest.

Cass hopped along with her, trying to keep up, but mostly being swept away by her.

There were shouts in Dwarven, but no footsteps following behind them.

The area around the trees was flat, so they didn’t have to fight their way uphill under fire, and the trees provided cover and concealing shadow. Cassandra tried to voice her agreement on the choice, but she was having to think too hard about not putting weight on her injured foot to spare any thought for speaking.

They ran and ran, stopping three hundred feet from the ambush.

Adaar gently let Cassandra down onto the ground.

Cassandra sat down, breathing slowly and evenly.

Adaar clasped her knees, panting.

They looked around, and both realised at the same time—

There were no Carta behind them.

But Viv and Sera had run in another direction.

They were on their own, in hostile territory, and Cassandra couldn’t help. 

Adaar got her breath under control, and held out her staff at Cassandra’s foot. “This isn’t my strong suit, but I can try—”

Warmth, like that from holding a candle next to skin, ran through her ankle. The heat faded, and with it, a portion of the pain. But only a portion.

Orchid looked up at her. “Better?”

“Somewhat.” Cassandra levered herself up, and tried to put weight on the ankle—and immediately collapsed. “It could be better.” She admitted.

Orchid rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s probably the best I can do right now.” She looked around.

Cass followed her gaze. The Carta hadn’t seemed to follow them, at least.

“Let’s find somewhere to shelter, and wait for someone to find us.” She offered a hand up to Cassandra. “…Someone friendly,” she added.

Cass took the hand, and carefully got herself standing on her good foot. “It would be prudent to head back to the camp.”

Adaar held the rest of her weight with her shoulder. “Not with that foot.” She looked sheepish. “Sorry. Scout Harding said something about a cave complex nearby.”

“And we end up underground often enough that at least Vivienne would think to look there.” Her shoulders dropped. “Lead the way.”

They moved forward carefully, walking and hopping respectively, with Adaar picking her way through to the least needle-and-root covered pieces of ground.

They found a cave quickly enough. Water cut the limestone into a “U” shape, with short stalactites dripping from the roof. It was small-- enough to keep the rain off, enough to climb in and hide if necessary, but still only just big enough for two people.

Adaar lowered Cass onto a flat lime near the entrance. She pulled out her staff again, and the gentle warmth returned—and did nothing.

“Better?”

Cassandra shook her head.

“I really haven’t had enough practice with healing. Right now, I wish I had more—”

She shrugged. “You made an effort. That is not nothing.”

Orchid huffed out a breath. “But it’s not a lot, either.” She sat down next to Cassandra, looking out towards the pines and the horizon hidden behind them.

After a minute she unclipped her cloak, and drew out a pocket knife.

Cassandra leaned over to watch what she was doing, eyebrow arched.

Adaar cut her cloak into thin, snaking strips. “I may not be much of a spirit healer, but I’ve bound a fair share of joints in my time.”

“You do not have to—”

She didn’t stop. “It’ll help though.”

“I don’t want you to be cold.” Which sounded ill-prioritised, coming from the injured party, but still.

Adaar chuckled. “I think I should be the one concerned.”

“We could take turns,” she suggested.

Adaar raised an eyebrow. “Hand me your ankle.”

Cassandra stuck her foot out. It’d help. Even if it felt—childish, weak, to accept help with her injuries. But needs must.

Adaar carefully unlaced her boot, so as not to jar the injury, and pulled it off her foot even more gently. She took the bandage, and wrapped it around the ankle.

It was painful at first, just for a moment, but then the pressure drowned out the pain, turned it just into tight wrap of the bandages and the weave of the fabric pressing into skin. And it was—not unpleasant, having Adaar’s hands on her, gentle and caring—even if that should not mean anything.

They were and could be professional. Adaar was the Inquisitor. And until such time as proper courting started—this was a professional warrior helping the other with their injuries. Nothing more.

Adaar lowered her foot.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. You got it trying to protect me. It’s only right to return the favour.” She leaned back against the limestone.

* * *

They passed the afternoon in largely mundane conversation. The foibles of the new recruits and the hopes Cullen would drill it out of them, the food stores and what they were trading for said food, the weapons the smiths made and how much ore and raw metal they had left. Adaar would occasionally break the flow, and ask if Cassandra needed anything.

Cassandra declined. She was injured, not an invalid, and she would not make Adaar run around doing things for her for no reason.

The conversation was mundane, and impersonal. General to Brigadier. Merchant to Secretary. Royal to vizier. Nothing else. Cassandra grit her teeth and ignored it. Given an opportunity to talk by themselves, she had foolishly expected more—but she should have expected this, also. She had told her that she did not want her flirting if it could not be done properly. Adaar had said she would try—but trying, and deciding she could not truly do it properly, that was also what Cassandra said she wanted. If Adaar could not do it—she was the Inquisitor. She just did not have the time.

(She could not have everything she wished for. She had made peace with that a long time ago. She would make that peace again.)

She talked less.

The sun dropped.

Adaar noticed.

“How’s the foot doing?”

Cassandra shrugged. “As it was half an hour ago.”

Vivienne and Sera, and whoever they had drummed up to go looking for them, must have returned to camp by now. It was growing too dark to search. They would be here all night.

“Excuse me,” Adaar said, as she left to gather dropped twigs and branches for firewood and kindling. She made a small fire in the cave, and lit it with magic. Everything in this forest smelled of pine, but the smoke in particular was fragrant with it.

Adaar leaned back against the limestone. “I really should have bought the candles earlier,” she said, unprompted. “And the poetry, too.”

“Candles?”

She huffed out a laugh. “I had a whole plan, for showing I was serious, like you asked. Candles and poetry featured prominently. But I was waiting till I could find the good stuff, got my eye in _for_ the good stuff. If I’d been less picky—well, maybe tonight could have been romantic, and instead of just painful and boring.”

“I… appreciate the gesture.” Looking after your lady was properly romantic, even if the circumstances in this case were unusual. (Usually your lady had not gotten injured in your defence.) It was… acceptable, as a proof of seriousness, if that was Adaar’s intention.

“The poetry might even have helped. Given me a better idea if the candles would’ve done anything, for a start, and what proper courting is.”

“…_Some_ poetry may have been helpful.” One of the romantic ballads, maybe, but if Adaar took them literally, and went off to slay a dragon to give her a dragon-skin cloak—actually, no, that would have worked too. She was, unfortunately, predictable, and a sap.

“All the poetry I know is almost-certainly-improper Tal-Vashoth poetry about courting.”

“Smutty poetry, then?” She was about to say that she was not necessarily opposed to such poetry, though maybe not as a guide, before Adaar interrupted her.

“No, not smutty. Just very Vashoth.”

She started reciting, smoothly and slowly, words tumbling out of her mouth like water-worn stones. She looked up, up at the stars and limestone roof and the hanging shards of rock as she tried to remember. It had the feel of something recited, either in words that one did not know the meaning of each individual word, even if they knew the whole, or words spoken so often that they became rhythm and mouth shape more than meaning. Cassandra had not heard Qunlat used for poetry before, but the long vowels stretched and mingled with the soft sibilants, making a rhythm and sound unknown to her, but beguiling nonetheless. She watched Adaar’s lips, each word rolling off the tongue like something savoured, or like the enunciation of hymn.

“It’s… beautiful,” Cassandra said. Which was a shameful understatement. It was more than that. The rhythm and the rhyme were finely crafted, and finely spoken also. But to have something like that spoken to her, _for her, _even if she did not understand the meaning, but because Adaar knew she liked poetry and romance and wanted to give it to her, even in the roughest of circumstances, so that it could bring some spark of beauty—

“It’s a—story poem? Ballad? Yes, a ballad. About two young Qunari, who fall for each other as they grow—” Adaar gave her a conspiratorial, sidelong glance. “Which was not very proper. And then one becomes a mage.”

Cassandra fell silent. In any other story, any other love story, she would have guessed the ending. The two lovers would reunite, somehow—but that was how human stories went. She knew less of Tal-Vashoth.

“The other manages to convince the Tamassrans to make him an Arvaarad—a keeper of mages. The Tamassrans don’t really take suggestions, but he convinced them that he would be best suited for the task. And when he becomes one, he breaks out his lover, and they escape and roam the world together, hand in hand… though I haven’t memorised the poem up to that point.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “And that is a poor translation of the story.”

“It is-- fine enough for me.” More than fine. It was arresting poetry even when she did not have any translation, and even a poor translation from Adaar’s mouth was more beautiful than stained glass by the finest artisan.

“I should ask someone to send me the rest of it. Learn it. Learn how to tell it in the Common tongue,” Adaar said to herself.

There were ways to say thank you for this gift. Ways that she should say it. But—words were difficult, and never were her strong suit. She leaned up against Adaar’s side. “You know how bad I am at waiting for the end of a love story.”

Orchid huffed out a laugh. “I’ll get onto it quickly then.”

* * *

The fire burned down to embers during the night. They fell asleep side by side, sharing warmth.

Cassandra woke up to a very chipper and very loud “Found you!”

She blinked her eyes open.

Sera stood in front of them, grinning a little too widely, with Vivienne and several Inquisition scouts behind her.

Vivienne _looked_ at them. It was not a look of judgment, per se, but of an awareness of what the situation looked like, and what that implied, and vague thankfulness that at least they had their clothes on.

Sera had no such tact. She leaned over to Orchid. “Soooo, how was it?”

“Well, we didn’t get eaten by bandits,” said Adaar as she levered herself up. She turned to Cassandra. “How’s the foot?”

She stood up, and experimentally put weight on it. It could take some of it, if not all of it. “Could still be improved, but better than before.”

Orchid nodded.

“You really want me to believe nothing happened?” Sera chipped in.

Cassandra did not want to say that nothing had happened—because something _did. _Orchid had tended to her wounds and recited her poetry, and that was not nothing. Sera would not understand, and nothing prurient _had_ happened—but she did not want to sound like Adaar’s efforts were for naught.

“It was an incredibly boring night,” said Adaar, saving her from having to reply.

“Some people are capable of behaving honourably for one night,” said Vivienne drily.

“If honour means keeping it in your pants; no thank you. Also means there are precisely zero nobs with any honour.” Sera cackled, and Vivienne sighed deeply.

Adaar walked over to Cassandra and gently squeezed her hand.

“Thank you for last night,” Cassandra said softly. “For the poetry. For the care.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You definitely swept me off my feet.”

She caught the double meaning too late, but Adaar smiled, trying to keep it restrained so it didn’t prompt anyone to ask what she was smiling about, and Orchid had worse luck keeping her blush restrained. 


End file.
